


take my brain (or what remains)

by nightskyhaze



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Anger, Blood and Injury, Dark, Deviates From Canon, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Language, Injury, Jacob Seed Lives, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Mind Manipulation, Minor Character Death, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Role Reversal, Swearing, The Deputy is evil, Trauma, minor character injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:54:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29676606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightskyhaze/pseuds/nightskyhaze
Summary: In which the music box becomes a highly efficient weapon in the hands of a not-so-neighborhood-friendly Deputy.Herald Jacob must suffer the consequences of his own conditioning methods, its unfortunate aftermath and the struggle to overcome his ensuing Wrath upon learning that his own methods have been used against him.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	take my brain (or what remains)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Far Cry from Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26658298) by [TheWyldeWynd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWyldeWynd/pseuds/TheWyldeWynd). 



> The title of this fiction comes from the song 'Body' by Mother Mother.

The only thought that crosses Jacob’s mind when he resurfaces back into horrific, wakeful consciousness is that The Deputy is a sick, fucking _**psychopath**_.

It takes him several breaths to steel his fury, compacting it down into something sharp and brutal as his hands grope blindly around on the ground. The brush of soft grass beneath his fingers only serve to infuriate Jacob more because _fuck_ if he hadn’t been in his compound when everything had gone to shit. When The Deputy had turned the tables back onto him as though _Jacob_ was the one trapped in the cage and not the insane fucker who actually had been. All that Jacob knows now is that - for some stupid reason - he can’t see a damn thing and that he’s definitely not anywhere even remotely close to his compound because there are birds calling out all around him, the strange rushing sound of water flowing somewhere (he doesn’t even know - can’t even _gauge_ where he is - ), because the ground is all soft, squishy with moisture under his boots.

What a **mess**.

Rage almost chokes him again as the unrelenting dam holding his emotions back begins to slip. In slow, steady movements (and Christ, why does every fibre of his being hurt so damn much?), Jacob manages to push himself up from the dirt, hands catching hardened bark that sends scents of heady pine flowing along into his nostrils. He lifts a hand to gently press against his eyes, the contact ripping a flinch from his form. Oh, hell no. If that fucker had taken his eyes-

Thankfully-

And this may be the only thing Jacob can feel even _remotely_ thankful for-

The Deputy has apparently left him unmutilated. For now. Jacob feels absolutely no relief from this revelation because the bastard was clearly playing the long game here, keeping him alive after a move this _ballsy_ was going to be his fucking death sentence, after all- no, Jacob felt no relief from the fact that apparently The Deputy didn’t think of him as enough of a threat to even remotely bother killing him.

This entire plan had been fucked from the start. From the moment that fucking **reaper** had entered Hope County, stepped into the good, honest dirt of the land, smirking that _devil’s_ grin and vowed to tear Joseph and the Project into scattered limbs and ashy dreams. 

What a fucking mistake they’d made.

No, seriously. Jacob’s still in shock at how quickly this man, this creature of hell, has managed to get the better of him. He- they had all underestimated The Deputy, to varying degrees that would leave them all the more **not alive** for it.

Oh, and Jacob knew this but he couldn’t seem to get anyone else to see just how fucking bad it was. Because it had been, it always had been and yet he’d relinquished his arguments, packed away all of his _fear_ (yes, even he - Jacob Seed - was forced to admit that The Deputy only invoked an overwhelming wave of trepidation in him) into a small box and shoved the damn thing away. Shoved it so far down within himself that nobody else had been able to see it in his eyes, not John, _certainly_ not Faith, not even _Joseph_ could have picked up on the subtle change within his demeanor. No, he - Jacob - had worked to goddamn hard to pull up the barriers around his emotions to let anyone else see them, to cut the feelings of horror, fear, regret down and even further, as he’d marched onwards through the crusade, as the deputy tore the world down around them, _ripped_ through the Faithful as easily as the wind strips the petals from a dandelion. 

And now- 

And now. _This_. 

He forces a huff that claws the back of his throat as the world tilts around him and-

He’s shivering, the motions running over his body like he’s a goddamn child again. Everything’s distorted, the world flickering from beneath his eyelids. Something slivers down his face, all fucking warm and wet so he cringes away from it but it follows him, sticking to shaking skin as though stuck there with permanent fucking glue or something.

What did that bastard-

What did he _do?_

Jacob swears to himself, voice low and guttural, even as the ringing in his ears (in his head) gives way to piercing, painful silence and he hazards an attempt to steady the swaying ground beneath him, prising open eyes stuck together with crust.

 _Fucking **hell**_.

As a leader, as a Herald, Jacob’s always insisted that the standards his Chosen keep are high, cleanliness still a part of the work they enforce across the Whitetails even as his followers fight with tooth and nail to subdue Eli Palmer and his band of ragtag follows who call themselves a militia. ( _Weak_. All so fucking weak and small and-)

 _Dead_. They were all dead, weren’t they? 

No, surely not. He couldn’t remember what happened but surely, _surely_ The Deputy hadn’t- The Deputy wouldn’t-

The haze covering his vision collapses at that moment and Jacob blinks, teeth baring into a snarl as he fumbles against the blinding light. Everything flashes white for a few seconds before solidifying. He breathes slowly, inhaling and exhaling as he takes stock of the fucking situation because (what the fuck - shitshitshitshit, no no, please -) Jacob is coated in a very unhealthy layer of grime and mud, his clothes scratched up into little more than rags and his hands-

Sweet, merciful _fuck_.

His **hands**.

Jacob can’t help wondering whether or not he’s relieved to find that his hands look relatively fucking normal but this relief quickly turns into cold, metallic dread as he inspects them more closely and-

Whatever had happened when that fucking _**monster**_ had turned his music box against him, whatever Jacob had done to those he’d encountered - _well_.

The testimony of their struggles have been fucking _etched_ onto the back of his hands, running up, up over his now-brutally carved into knuckles and further down his wrists.

Fuck.

He imagines the people he’s left rotting somewhere, their nails filled with the blood and fleshed clawed from his hands. A stab of nausea flashes through his gut; it takes a few moments before the feeling passes. Jacob’s throat closes up, only momentarily but enough so that he has to take a gulp of cool air, trying not to heave at the thoughts.

After all, it’s one thing to cull the Weak from the herd and quite another to mindlessly slaughter whoever crosses your path, leaving only bloody carnage and savaged corpses behind you. Not that he’s not used to the fallout of guerilla conflicts or hell, even all-and-out-bomb-the-shit-outta-them warfare - honestly, Jacob’s no fool, no matter what Johnny says. He’s seen enough shit to know the horrifically blurred lines between man and _beast_ when under such duress - but god, The Deputy has no such qualms. The lines don’t seem to exist to The Deputy, oh no, he had barely ever had any morals from the start.

Honestly, Jacob’s more pissed about the fact that he’s now gonna have more scars to cover up the pretty burns running up his arms. Would he ever be free from getting torn up, bloodied and chewed on by other goddamn people? Apparently not because when he turns his hands over, the skin of his palms are bruised and his left hand has almost been ripped up. 

It’s all he can do to stare blankly down at them, quelling the urge to throw back his head and scream into the sky. A branch snaps from behind him- and, yeah, that’s probably a really, really bad idea. Nope, he’s not gonna do that. Or at least not until he’s safely tucked away back in the safety of John’s ranch or some other place that isn’t choke-full of people who want his head on a pike. Of course, he’s not stupid; Jacob could easily take up to three or four, maybe even five assailants, even in the condition he’s in now but the Resistance has far more people than that to enlist in taking down the _big, bad **wolf**_ and he’s not willing to take those kind of odds.

Besides, the only coherent thought currently running through his mind right now is how much he wants to tear The fucking Rook into bite-sized pieces and watch the fucker bleed out before him. God, Jacob would relish watching the life fading from those horribly beautiful - _ice, glass, the world splintering around him as that music box ensnares his mind, The Deputy is all he can see and even he fades away into the darkness leaving Jacob alone with those_ \- electrifying, **blue** eyes. 

What’s funny is-

He can picture them, even now. As clear as day, as the fucking world around Jacob that crystalises as his mental image of those - The Rook’s - eyes glare into his soul, all twisted and mocking and shadowy, hints of that strange, terrifying **darkness** within them.

Jacob does another preliminary check over himself for injuries and wounds, ignoring the bloodstains and the heavy panging ache of hunger within him, straightens up and forces himself to take a step forward. The Soldier takes over, his brain powering down into automatic mode. Jacob tries to ignore the mild trembling of his hands as he slowly begins the long slog back towards his compound, dreading the gristly scenes await him there.

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I was nervous to post this having spent the last three years reading the excellent Far Cry 5 fanfiction on Ao3. Especially with the author of the work that inspired me to write this one-shot who is my Far Cry 5 muse! 
> 
> Obviously the role reversal tag is less accurate here than it may present: this is based upon the idea that The Deputy managed to steal Jacob's music box and use it against him in order to set him loose upon his own compound in a state of feral and _highly_ murderous rage.
> 
> (Dep would've just then sat back, put his legs up and laughed as Jacob stormed through his own 'safe' place and killed all of his specially-trained Chosen and Faithful. What a field day, huh? All he had to do was wind up a tinny little music box and _boom!_ one firmly captured Seedling ready to do whatever you ordered him to.)
> 
> What a fascinating idea, no? Well, I may update this someday but for now keep reading and supporting each other through this troubling time! (Also, keep an eye out - I fully intend on uploading my own Far Cry 5 AU featuring my own Deputy OC who's fully intending on ruining everything the Seedling's set out to do...)
> 
> Please leave a comment if you have any feedback/liked this piece of writing! Stay safe and have a great day!


End file.
